For Every Sin, A Consequence
by blue peanut m and m
Summary: Barton feels guilty after events in Manhatten. Not able to face going back to S.H.I.E.L.D, and wanting to be alone he steals away from the others, but is he really alone?
1. Chapter 1

**For Every Sin, A Consequence.**

**Summary. . . . . . Barton feels guilty after events in Manhatten. Not able to face going back to S.H.I.E.L.D, and wanting to be alone he steals away from the others, but is he really alone?**

**Disclaimer. . . . . All characters belong to Marvel, I'm just loaning them from some fun and shameless Clint whump.**

* * *

He was surrounded by the rest of the Avengers, yet he felt alone.

Empty.

Guilty.

Broken.

Barton walked into the battle scarred diner like an automaton, his mind blank, his body moving because everyone else's was. He didn't want to be here, he didn't want to do something that was so normal, so natural; didn't feel as though he had the right to do something so normal, so natural, but the other's had insisted, had refused to allow him to wonder off alone. They hadn't known, how could they, that all he wanted to do was find the nearest dark and high up place where he could retreat, lick his wounds and wallow in the giant vat of guilt that he felt was crushing him with its pressure. So he had blindly followed, telling himself that he was only doing so because he needed to, after all he hadn't eaten anything since the morning he was taken over by Loki's power, and he knew he needed to get some sustenance back into his body.

He must have mumbled out an order somehow, because the next thing he knew he was being ushered to the only table remaining standing amidst the chaos, and being forced to sit by Tasha; biting back groans of pain as his body reminded him of the hell he had put it through, and it had been put through. He eased forward taking pressure off his battered back, as the chairs wooden frame dug into the tender muscles and flesh that he knew would be sporting a colourful array of bruises; bruises that he also knew, when he got around to checking them later, would be shaped like the quiver he carried. His mind wandered as he remembered the battle, and it took a few seconds to register that his partner was talking to him, but the words were muffled, as if coming from far away, and held no meaning, until her cool hand on his warm face grounded him to the here and now.

"You okay." She inquired again, those two words asking much, much more, but long drawn out sentences had never been needed between the two of them.

Already feeling unworthy of the people surrounding him, he chose to reply in Russian back, not wanting to show anymore weakness. "Just tired."

"Injuries?"

"Bruises." He lied. "You?"

"Scratches" She also played down. "Want to go?"

He thought long and hard before replying, yes he wanted to go; he so desperately wanted to go, he didn't deserve to be here, he wanted to be alone; but he had fought with these people, they had trusted him, the least he could do was stay and eat with them. "No, I'm okay." He finally ground out.

He could tell that she didn't believe him, could tell that she wanted to ask more, could tell that, when she finally got him alone, he'd be in for a "mothering" from hell later, but she allowed him his lie for now, and Clint was almost glad that any further conversation was halted by the arrival of their food, the aromas of which was almost his undoing and it was all he could do from not fleeing once again as his rebellious stomach rolled and flopped inside him, as spicy meats, sauces, and the grease off fries assaulted his nostrils. Instead he propped a foot upon Natasha's chair, the toes of his boot resting just barely against her hip, needing the faint touch to once more ground him, and forced food that tasted and felt like course sandpaper down his throat.

After two bites he knew it was no good, if he forced any more down it would soon make its way back up, and as bland as it tasted going down he knew coming back up would be worse. He stole glances at the others, but nobody was watching him, each of them caught up in their own thoughts, so he pushed his food around the plate, played with it, breaking it up, tearing it, and hoped that by making a mess it would distract them from the fact he wasn't eating it. He just wanted to leave.

He wants to eat; it's been days, his body needs it, but just the thought of putting anything in his stomach makes it churn harder than a boat in the stormiest of seas.

He wants to sleep; it's been even longer since he's done that, but sleeping means loss of control, and loss of control means remembering, and remembering means nightmares. He doesn't want to remember, doesn't want to see the faces he slaughtered come back to haunt him in his dreams.

Natasha's phone vibrating pulls him from a place he doesn't want to linger in, and he instead halfheartedly listens into the one sided conversation, his eyes searching hers as he hears his name spoken.

"Barton? He's here." Natasha mouthed the words "where's your phone" to Clint, who shrugged in reply, before returning her attention back to the call, listening for a few more minutes before speaking once again. "Okay, we'll make our way back for debriefing, send someone to pick us up, Barton crashed our Quinjet." Clint watched as she hung up, a sense of dread clenching at his stomach even more. He thought he knew what was coming, but waited for Tasha to confirm it. "We have to head back to Stark's; Fury's sending someone to pick us up for debriefing with him and the Council." She turned away to finish the last of her food and drink, missing the way the colour completely drained from his face, and the way his breath caught in his throat.

The Archer struggled to regain control, struggled to get much needed air back into his aching lungs. He couldn't go back to the Helicarrier; not yet, hell not ever; too many memories; too many reminders; too may eyes staring at him with revulsion and hate. He could feel the bile start to rise, knew he had to get away before it overflowed. He rose sharply; hiding his aches, his pains, behind a stoic mask, and spoke quickly. "Okay, I'm just gonna use the washroom, I'll be right back." He could feel the Assassins eyes upon him as he walked towards the hallway that led to the men's, knew he had used too many words and that he'd worried her; but he kept his gait slow and easy, trying for an air of nonchelance, even though inside he felt like fleeing. He didn't look back as he turned into the room, locking the door behind him. Ignoring the urinals and stalls he made his way to the small window at the back, thankful for his circus training and slight frame as he jimmied the lock and quickly slithered his way through the small opening. Dropping gracefully and quietly into the alley, without looking he stole away into the night, oblivious to the eyes that tracked him.

To be continued.

**A.N. . . . . To try and get back into the swing of writing, I thought I'd try a new community. I hope you all enjoy, more to come soon, and I'll attempt to make the chapters longer. Peanut x**


	2. Chapter 2

**For Every Sin, A Consequence.**

**Summary. . . . . . Barton feels guilty after events in Manhattan, needing to be alone he steals away from the others, but is he really alone?**

**Disclaimer. . . . . All characters belong to Marvel, I'm just loaning them from some fun and shameless Clint whump. **

**A.N . . . . . . . Thanks to everyone who took time out to read, review, or add this to any lists. I hope that you enjoy chapter 2.**

* * *

Natasha followed her partners exit with care, there was something wrong she could feel it, could feel the worm of doubt wriggling away inside her; something was off with Barton. She chose to ignore her feelings, chose to push them aside, as memories assaulted her, memories of vibrant blue eyes, and a face that showed no emotions; it was no wonder he was acting strange. No matter how hard she tried to push them aside though, the bad feelings kept rising and she knew she had to do something to ease them, she knew she had to find him and make him talk. Easing herself up, stifling groans as her own body reminded her of the battle she had just fought; she turned and began giving farewells to the other members, when she turned to Bruce she suddenly faltered.

All eyes turned her way as Russian words fell from her mouth, in a tone so harsh each member was left with no doubt that they were curses. They all watched as she kicked away her own chair, and slammed the palm of her hand down onto the table, as she dropped her head to her chest and yet more Russian flowed.

"Natasha?" Steve timidly spoke. "What's wrong? Are you hurt?"

No reply was forthcoming at first, and when one finally did, it confused everyone. "He spoke too many words."

It was Tony this time that responded. "Say again?"

"He spoke too many words. I should have known, but I ignored it. He spoke too many words."

"Is she still speaking Russian? Cause she's making no sense to me?" Stark asked the others, Steve's mouth opening to reprimand his insensitivity but Natasha beating him.

"Barton's bolted. He's gone."

"See she's still not making any sense, did she not see bird boy? I mean Legolas was sat right beside her."

"Check the bathroom if you don't believe me Stark, I think I know my partner better than you do, I can guarantee you that it will be empty, more than likely with the window thrown open."

"But why would the master archer leave this fine banquet?" Thor's voice thundered out.

"I can only guess, but I have a feeling it's to do with going back to S.H.I.E.L.D." She stopped herself from revealing more, hating herself from betraying even that bit about her partner.

"She's right, he's gone." The quiet voice of Bruce Banner told them.

Natasha cursed herself; it was a testament to how worried she was about Clint, that she hadn't even seen the scientist leave. Pulling herself back together, she stowed her emotions, they would not help. "We have to find him."

"C'mon, you're kidding me right? He's a grown man, perhaps he just wants to do a little celebrating, if you know what I mean." Stark raised his eyebrows in a knowing fashion before adding. "And even if we choose to go find him, he's a master archer ninja assassin, he's trained to take out people from afar, to blend and hide and not be seen. How the hell are we gonna find the man whose job it is to not be seen?"

"I know his tricks, I know his ways. We have to find him." Natasha shouted.

"Why?" Steve asked. "Maybe Tony's right, maybe he just wanted to let off some steam."

"He's a soldier, we just got ordered back to base. Now tell me Captain America," Natasha almost spat his name, "you're a soldier too, would you ignore that order to go let off some steam."

Steve held up his hands in defense before speaking. "No I wouldn't, but I've also never been brainwashed by an alien from another world, and been forced to betray the people I work with. I have a feeling if I had I would want a bit of time to get my head straight before I had to face those colleagues again. Maybe we should give him that time?"

"We can't." Tasha replied.

"We can, I'm sure Fury would understand. Tell you what I'll call him." Tony started to reach for his phone, only to stop as Natasha spoke again.

"We can't."

"Why Ma'am?" Steve asked.

They all watched as The Widow wiped her hand across the seat of the chair Hawkeye had been sitting on, its dark pattern hiding its secrets until she showed her hand to them. "This is why." Blood coated her palm, glistening in the light of the restaurant. Ignoring the curses that fell from the others lips she added. "We have to go; we have to find him now."

* * *

The fear of going back to his only home and facing the death and destruction he had helped to create, of facing the men and women he had worked with for years was slowly ebbing, and Clint knew he was in trouble within minutes of leaving. The adrenaline rush, created by his fears, that had pushed him to move was dying, leaving him tired and spent, shivers wracked his body igniting all of his pains once again, his head pounded, his eyes felt gritty and heavy with exhaustion, and he could now feel the blood as it leaked slowly from his body, dripped down his torso and began to saturate the waistband of his pants. He wanted to turn back; wanted, for once, to take comfort in Natasha's arm's; wanted to believe when everyone told him he was wrong; but he knew he couldn't, he didn't deserve comfort, and he knew no one elses words would banish his own thoughts. He didn't feel safe though, even through his exhaustion his senses were tingling with the feeling he only got the very few times he had been caught in someone else's crosshairs. Putting it down to the knowledge the other Avengers must have figured out he had left by now, he walked over to the nearest fire escape; he needed to climb, needed to hide, needed some time, needed to be alone.

* * *

Rage, and hate, and the thirst for revenge had brought them here. Too many had died; too many friends and colleagues and loved ones. He had to pay, everyone who was here thought so. So ignoring orders and the rumblings of the many that disagreed with them they had left their posts and ventured into the mayhem of Manhattan. Once here they had thought their task would be hard, thought they would have to wait days, weeks even, to be given the opportunity to act out their trial, deliver their sentencing, and administer their punishment. Instead they couldn't believe their luck when the Hawk ventured out alone with no other's in sight. They'd hung back though, they weren't that stupid, they feared his reputation that truly did speak for itself, and they feared that they were wrong and that Captain America, The Hulk, Iron Man, Thor, and most especially The Widow, were not far behind; but their luck held and they began to creep forward.

As they watched him slowly ease down the dirty and rancid alleys, picking his way between the overflowing dumpsters and puddles of mysterious liquids, they couldn't believe their luck again, as it was clear within a few minutes of watching, that he was hurting, that he was not truly aware of his surroundings, making the task they were about to do even more easier. They paused as he did, watched him look around as though he knew someone was watching him, before he staggered towards the nearest fire escape and began to climb. They had anticipated this though; had figured at some point he'd aim for higher ground, and had situated people along every possible route he could take; the closely packed buildings making it easy for them to travel from rooftop to rooftop as they followed their quarry below. So when he began to climb they were ready, and when his body finally crested the precipice, breathing heavily from the exertion they struck. Their luck holding out once more as he took one look at them, took one look at the uniforms they wore, and surrendered without so much as a fight.

To Be Continued. . . . . .


	3. Chapter 3

**For Every Sin, A Consequence.**

**Summary. . . . . . Barton feels guilty after events in Manhattan, needing to be alone he steals away from the others, but is he really alone?**

**Disclaimer. . . . . All characters belong to Marvel, I'm just loaning them from some fun and shameless Clint whump. **

**A.N . . . . . . . Thanks to everyone who took time out to read, review, or add this to any lists. I hope that you enjoy chapter 3.**

* * *

Natasha didn't feel an ounce of guilt, as she followed the rest of the Avengers out of the shwarma restaurant; at least that was what she kept telling herself. In reality she hated the fact that she had deceived her friends, that she had lied to them, that she had used the same trick Fury had against them, but she knew deep down that there was something wrong with her partner, she hadn't lied when she said he had spoken too many words; a talkative Barton was a worrisome Barton for her, and she had known that without resorting to tricks, the others would have taken too long to believe her concerns. She tried to justify her actions to herself, tried to make herself feel better about her deceit, but it just felt wrong. She knew that there wasn't enough blood on the seat to be concerned, she could tell from the tears in Barton's suit that he just had some gashes probably from all the broken glass that Manhattan was now strewn with, but she had needed their help, so she had become the spy that she was renowned for, and had played the others into helping her. The act was needed, she just knew it; she just knew Barton was off, that something was wrong with him, that he needed their help.

They'd paused as they entered the alley behind the restaurant. What did they do now? Which way should they go? They all looked to The Widow for answers, orders about to fall from her lips, only to be cut off by the ringing of her cell phone. Switching it straight to speaker, she answered with more heat and anger than she meant, but time was wasting and they needed to move. "Romanoff."

"Romanoff, is Barton with you? Are you on your way back?" Fury asked, his words clipped and straight to the point.

Natasha's unease grew at the questions. "Not yet Sir." She replied to the latter question, whilst completely ignoring the former.

Fury though did not miss that fact. "Romanoff, I'll ask again, because this is god damn important, is Barton with you?" He knew when she didn't answer straight away that the Archer wasn't. "Get Barton from where ever he is and put him on the damn phone."

"That may be hard to do Sir." Natasha responded.

"What do you mean Agent Romanoff?" Fury though didn't give her chance to reply before he added. "He bolted didn't he? Find him Agent, find him now, and keep him close."

"With all due respect Sir, what's going on?" Rogers inquired, once he noticed that Natasha wasn't about to, her features now twisting with worry for her missing partner.

"We've lost contact with two of our teams sent out to help with the clean-up in Manhattan. Word has come to my attention that before they were sent out, they were mouthing off about Agent Barton's part in this Loki mess, and how he deserves to be paid back for his actions. They've completely slipped our net, we have no track of them, they could be anywhere." Fury sighed deeply, his tone softening before adding more. "I'm worried about Agent Barton, I know he can look after himself, but these are eight men who are trained in the same methods he is, maybe not to his standards, and on a normal day I would place my money on Barton, but this isn't a normal day, hell it isn't even a normal week. Clint's been through hell, I know he's not at full strength, and I know what that man is like. I have no doubt he'll already be blaming himself, and I have no doubt he'll feel as though he deserves to be punished; but as far as I'm concerned he doesn't, so find him, and keep him safe. I'll send pictures of the rogue men to your phones, and help you all I can, just find him before they do." With those last words Fury hung up.

"We need to split up." Natasha spoke as she replaced the phone back in her pocket. "Trust no one else but us; we'll know who these agents are soon, but we don't know if there are other's that are staying hidden. Tony, Thor, go high, if I know Barton, that's where he'll go. Steve, Bruce and myself will try and see if we can find his trail on the ground. Comm check every ten minutes, report everything even if you feel it seems insignificant. Let's find us our bird." She watched them spread out around her, and sent a silent pray up to a God she wasn't sure she believed in, before taking off herself. The hunt was on, and she could only hope they found their prey first.

Multiple comm checks came and went before Stark finally reported something that turned Tasha heart to ice. She quickly ran over to his location, and scrambled up a fire escape. Once over the edge, she made her way over to where the rest of the Avengers stood, all of them looking at something on the ground. Her heart beating wildly in her chest she looked down, not knowing if she should feel relief, or be even more worried, when her eyes fell upon Clint's bow and quiver, and the blood that coated them, that glistened in the moonlight.

* * *

They couldn't believe their eyes when the Hawk just fell to his knees before them, his arms rising above him before bending at the elbows, his hands resting against his head. Shocked, it took them a few moments before realization registered that he was giving up, that he was surrendering himself to them. Confusion surrounded them, before anger flared, anger that their retribution was being denied. They wanted him to fight, wanted to administer their punishment, but him giving up bewildered them. They all stared at him for a minute before a voice spoke up.

"So that's how you want to play this? So be it." He finished his words with a hard closed fisted punch to Clint's face that spun his head back viciously, split the skin of his eyebrow, blood leaking, and had his eye swelling immediately. He got annoyed when all Clint did in response was to right himself and continue to stare straight ahead. The next punch closed the eye completely, and had him crashing to the ground, where a boot to the chest broke ribs that he had damaged in the earlier battle. A stomped boot to Clint's right hand snapped bones like twigs, and nearly caused a cry of pain to be released, before a follow up boot to the face shattered his cheek bone, and sent him to a world of darkness. "Tie him up, make sure you do it properly, you know what a sneaky bastard he can be. If he doesn't want to fight, then so be it, but we will still have our trial, we will still give our verdict, we will still minister out our punishment."

He watched as Barton's hands were balled into fists and taped closed before handcuffs were fitted and ratcheted as tightly as possible to his wrists, the metal cutting into flesh, his eyes glistening with joy at the thought of the pain the Archer would feel when he woke up. Walking over to the still unconscious man, he removed the quiver and bow that still rested across his back, and rubbed it through the blood that still flowed from Barton's eyebrow. Standing back up he passed it to another agent. "Take this and dump it a few blocks over. Be quick, we don't know how much time we have, and do not be seen." Turning back to the men guarding the inert agent, he spoke once more. "Pick him up, we can't stay here, they'll look to the rooftops, it's where Barton roams best. Let's move, we still have much work to be done."

To Be Continued. . . . . . .

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**A.N. . . . . . . . . . Thanks for stopping by, will be back soon with more, Peanut x**


	4. Chapter 4

**For Every Sin, A Consequence.**

**Summary. . . . . . Barton feels guilty after events in Manhattan, needing to be alone he steals away from the others, but is he really alone?**

**Disclaimer. . . . . All characters belong to Marvel, I'm just loaning them from some fun and shameless Clint whump. **

**A.N . . . . . . . Warning, this chapter does contain the torturing of Barton, to me it's not overly graphic, but if you are of a sensitive nature, you have been warned. Thanks to everyone who took time out to read, review, or add this to any lists. I hope that you enjoy chapter 4.**

* * *

Days passed by unnoticed, hours and minutes and seconds having no meaning to the man barely holding onto consciousness. A door opened upon the lone figure and a man's footsteps could be heard as he entered. His name was Joseph Gunderson, a S.H.I.E.L.D employee for twenty five years, it was his life. He'd lost marriages to S.H.I.E.L.D, lost his children to S.H.I.E.L.D, yet he loved the company, loved the job, loved the people he worked with, but that had all changed now. He signaled for the strobe lighting, that had been flashing constantly, and for the noise that pumped insistantly through hidden speakers, to be turned off, and walked closer; emotions battled within him, as he strode into the cold and damp room he had converted years ago into a cell. Hatred showed mostly upon his weary features, hatred for the man that knelt partially clothed and shackled before him; the man, who in his eyes and mind, had created so much destruction, so much death. He'd luckily been away from the Helicarrier that day and at the New York base, but he'd heard the news; heard how close friends had fallen when the first engine had blown, two incinerated completely, not even their dogtags would ever be found, two more falling to their deaths, their bodies still to be located. His best friend was also a victim, an arrow catching him as he fought to stop the invaders and protect the bridge. So yeah, he hated Barton with a passion. But he was also a soldier, and deep down he knew this was wrong, that he was disobeying direct orders to gain revenge, but that emotion was weak compared to his hate, so he swallowed it back down, and moved on over to his prize.

Grasping harshly at the short blond hair, he roughly pulled Barton's head up from where it was lolling on his chest, a sadistic laugh falling from his lips as the man groaned and struggled; he had no doubt that by now this position hurt and put pressure on his straining shoulders, wrists and arms. He'd witnessed years ago this form of confinement, and had stored the knowledge in the hopes that someday he would get to use it, even finding this building and creating this room; never in a million years though did he think it would be on a so called friendly; but Barton had stopped being called that the minute he allowed an alien God to take control of him.

He had been in the Middle East, sent there to take down a man who was on his way to becoming the next fanatical war lord, and to rescue two British aid workers he had been keeping prisoner. The take down had been easy, but one prisoner was already dead, and the other. . . . . . . . well the other was shackled as Barton was now, and once released couldn't stand without help and excruciating pain, and had damaged his shoulders so much, that as far as Gunderson knew they hadn't been repairable. That prisoners though, had been there for weeks, he wasn't going to allow Barton to last that long. He looked down at the shackles that pinned Barton's legs to the floor, forcing his ankles to bend so that his feet pointed straight. His knees were bent, his body sat upon his feet, and his arms were pulled back about a foot behind him, two more shackles encircling his wrists two links of chain conecting to another shackle that was bolted to the floor also. It strained every ounce of one's body, not allowing the prisoner to move, stressing muscles and joints, and leaving the vulnerable core unprotected; and they had taken advantage of that fact.

Baron's Vest had been removed along with his boots and socks, leaving him clad only in trousers that offered little protection from the cold; the water treatment they had administered first, seeing to that; the fetid, freezing water coating every inch of his body, invading open wounds with its bacteria and leaving his pants saturated. Infection had set into gashes the archer had received in the battle of Manhattan, leaving him shivering with cold, yet burning from fever. The strobe lights had been a constant every time he was alone, burning his retina's even through his closed lids. Noise was pumped into the cell every time it looked as though Barton might try to sleep, and more water poured over him every time he fell into unconsciousness. When he wasn't alone, Gunderson and his cohorts were there, fists smashing into his torso, his face, his straining thighs, breaking fragile ribs and creating bone deep bruises and who knew what internal damage. In what he thought of a justice, Gunderson had used an arrow stolen from Barton's supply to tear away at the flesh of his stomach and arms; the razor sharp head slicing easily through flesh, carving intricate patterns, shallow yet still painful why rubbed with with handfuls of rock salt, until he grew bored with what he considered a primitive weapon and thrust it into the archer's thigh. No wound was life threatening, just carefully controlled and applied to cause as much pain as possible. Although at times that control was severley tested as Barton stayed stoic and quiet, never uttering a scream or cry, just occasional groans slipping past dried and cracked lips; not even when during one vigorous beating he was pushed awkwardly, the bones in his right wrist snapping, the shackle biting deep into his left, and his right shoulder was wrenched from it's socket. He wanted the archer to scream, to beg for forgiveness, and the more he didn't the more Gunderson began to lose control until the beatings and torture get more and more frequent.

Now though, he felt time was running out, they hadn't seen or heard from the other so called Avengers, but that didn't mean they couldn't be close and he had one final punishment for Barton; so the verdict was about to be served. They'd had their trial, one of his trusted men standing in for Barton; they'd listened to evidence, watched and read reports, and had waited for the man to stand up for the archer, but not a word fell from his lips, so they had with ease come to a decision. Looking up to the camera that pointed constantly at the prisoner, Gunderson spoke for the first time.

"Has the jury reached a verdict that is unanimous?"

"We have." A voice crackled back through the speakers.

"On the count of treason and multiple counts of murder, what do you find the defendant Clint Barton?"

"We find the defendant to be guilty."

Turning to look at Barton's glassy and unfocussed eye, the other one still swollen shut, Gunderson chuckled. "You have been found guilty of treason and murder, by a jury of your peers, do you have anything to say for yourself before your sentence is given?" He grasped Clint's chin and slammed his jaw shut viciously, relishing the small trickle of blood that leaked out as his lip got caught in between, and his teeth ripped through the flesh, before adding. "Nothing? That's a pity, I was offering you a chance to repent, it might have changed the punishment. As it is, I see that you have no pity, no shame, no remorse for your actions, which leaves me with no other option."

Dropping Clint's head back down, he wiped dirt, blood and grime from his fingers on a pristine white handkerchief. Bending down so that he was eye level with the assassin he waited for the man's glassy grey eye to focus his way, and added. "Clint Barton, you are hereby sentenced to death."

To Be Continued. . . . . . . . . . .

* * *

**A.N. . . . . . . . . Dun, Dun, Durrrrr. A cliffie! I really hope that you liked this chapter, and that it comes across as realistic, let me know. Thank you once again for stopping by, and just in case I don't post again before hand, I hope that you all have a very Merry Christmas. Peanut x**


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